


Letting Go

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Brown's last day in No. 10, and he finds himself thinking back to that day in the Italian restaurant . . .<a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Fic: Letting Go, R  
> Title: Letting Go  
> Author: hobnailedboots  
> Characters/Pairings: Tony Blair/Gordon Brown.  
> Rating: R (but for language only, why is this so tame)  
> Word Count: 750-ish  
> Warnings: Angst, no reference to PETER BONE, sorry  
> Disclaimer: not real, never happened.  
> Summary: It's Brown's last day in No. 10, and he finds himself thinking back to that day in the Italian restaurant . . .
> 
>  
> 
> “"Peter? He's been going around telling everyone that I'm gay. And I'm not gay."  
> Gordon Brown's response when asked by Blair to heal his rift with Mandelson in 1995, recounted in Lord Levy's memoirs”
> 
> [The Torygraph (this article is gold), http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/labour/3130259/Peter-Mandelsons-rift-with-Gordon-Brown-In-quotes.html]

**  
_Letting Go_   
**

 

“Nick, Nick, I can't hold on much longer,” Brown says as he picks up the phone. He doesn't understand. He'd thought that this was a given, an anti-Tory majority and finally a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the public. Nick had given him the wink and the nod, had he not? He had laughed _with_ him over that bigoted woman, hadn't he? Brown had already made it quite clear that he'd be prepared to drop Darling and give Cable the Chancellor job he lusted after so much (god knows why he'd want it, though, Brown knows you can't fucking please anyone in that job). So why was he picking up Nick's direct line only to find it unavailable?

Gordon steals a glance to the vans outside, their dishes curving and distorting every second. There is an exceptionally boring live feed on the BBC news website, and, working on autopilot, he makes a feeble joke about them, the Labour elite, not knowing any more than Nick Robinson. Campbell laughs appreciatively, and returns to tweeting.

Suddenly, Gordon feels like smashing the fucking bannisters to pieces. But no. That got him into trouble with the press in the first place. And besides, what good would that do? Violence would merely alienate him further from the people he tried to serve. The people who hated him. And the party he loved was crumbling under his leadership, with Darling standing by him like a faithful scottie dog – dour yet brisk – that ginger wifie rocking the fucking boat, Prescott eating all the fucking sandwiches, and Blair.

Let's not mention Blair.

His hands tighten their grip on the table – mahogany – and in a moment he is back in Islington.

 _His fingers are drumming the surface of the table nervously, and they leave a mark. He tries to smudge it off but it just becomes larger. He looks up and tries to smile, but he's never been very good at this whole insincerity thing. He's nervous, but the fact that Tony's chosen him over Mandy – just think, for once he has been_ chosen _and it's not as an academic guinea pig or as meat in the rugby team or as a convenient shag when no one else is round, but proper_ “I like you better than that smarmy git _” chosen – is surely a good sign._

“ _I'm not a great fan of Italian,” remarks Brown, and Blair laughs, loosening his tie. Brown doesn't know what's amusing, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets Tony pick the wine. A few glasses later, and Gordon feels Tony's foot nudging his. He has, he says, a number of proposals to make. Tony's words speed up and he's mentioning that other Tony – the poncy Giddens bloke – but it's not a slavish reference, and at one Gordon realises The Othe Tony was a pawn all along and instead of suspicion he feels relief, and he notes this Tony's gestures becoming more emphatic, and his whispered words speeding up, and thinks this is a sign of sincerity. This is a sign of nerves, a sign that these few minutes in Islington are of vital importance to the years to come and that Tony wants – truly sincerely wants – a partnership with Brown. The warm candlelight is everywhere and Brown blinks, twice as Tony leans forwards._

“ _The press are using telescopics again,” he mutters. Gordon whips his head round but his movement is checked by a swift kick to the shin._

“ _Ow!”_

“ _Don't you think that due to the sensitivity of such matters we should discuss them in surroundings which are rather more private?” he asks, and Brown thinks about protesting that the food hasn't come yet, but he's damned if he knows what a calzone is anyway. “My room?” he attempts to murmur, but Gordon knows it comes out as more of a grumble, and his stomach clenches in shame. He feels smooth Oxford brogues against his calf and Tony agrees with his idea, fishing out two twenties for the meal._

No, Brown doesn't want to think about Blair.


End file.
